


O Tiger's Heart

by Leyenn



Series: Vertigo [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Other, Telepathy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't want to see this, to hear it or know it. He just can't stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Tiger's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> AU post-ep for _Attached_.

Dreams are strange things. _'The isle is full of noises / Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not,'_ comes to his mind, but he isn't asleep. Sounds and sweet airs, indeed.

Beverly herself concocted the mixture floating around in his bloodstream now, some complex string of molecules that permits him to be as much as a deck away from her (and her from him) and only feel mildly unsteady on his feet when he stands too quickly, instead of the crippling nausea he thought was intended. That turns out to be a simple, overly Human reaction she can treat with her usual consummate professionalism, for which he, Picard, is both grateful and absurdly uncomfortable.

The distance provides him with some respite from her mind if he stays busy. Over the past few hours, relaxing, it's been something of a different matter.

She wondered how telepaths did it, and his own curiosity has also been more than piqued, to the point that the padd in his hand holds a first-year text from the Vulcan Academy of Sciences, a comparison study of Betazoid and Vulcan techniques with a smattering of other races thrown in for good measure. It really is fascinating. He's somewhat chagrined that he hasn't thought to investigate such things before, in all the years he's been serving with a Betazoid...

...ah, but there is why he hasn't. He has to admit that because he already did, to Beverly, in the flickering light of a fire. Still, it isn't Deanna who makes him shift uncomfortably in his chair right now.

If this _were_ a dream, he'd be happier to ignore it. As it is, it's not, and he can't.

He doesn't think Beverly can feel when he's 'reading' her mind, although he has learnt in the last half an hour that that isn't quite what either of them are doing. More an accidental crossing of channels, apparently, although obviously to the Prytt it was far from accidental. He shudders to imagine how the intimacy of this link could be abused and silently thanks Will again for - well, for any number of things, not least ensuring that KesPrytt will be left alone for many more years to come.

Will. There is the - well, 'problem' is the wrong word, he would say, if he weren't as alone as he is able to be, but since he is, perhaps he should admit it.

_"Will," she says quietly, and he lifts his head to look at her with a small frown._

"You okay?" The tone of his voice is a lover's gentle concern. "You still look a bit pale."

She chuckles. "Thanks."

A familiar grin lights up his expression. "Did you want something?"

It cannot have been intended by any Fates that he share moments like this. Picard is a private person, very private, and he has seen enough of this relationship. If only the words on the page would leap out at him faster, because he doesn't want to see this through her mind. Or feel it through her senses...

_Will's embrace is strong and comfortable. Comforting. She hadn't realised she even needed to be comforted until he walked around the table a moment ago, put the tea down in front of her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders._

"Mmmm." She reaches up and clings to him with her fingers around his wrist and tucked into his elbow. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Will murmurs into her ear.

He scrolls back up the page and reads a particularly convoluted sentence over again to try not to feel that tingle on her skin. To try not to realise that he will dimly remember now, for a long time, how attractive Will Riker's strength and humor is to her and how calming his presence is-

_"Beverly?"_

She shifts uncomfortably in the chair and drops her pen. She leans back against him. "This isn't working."

He realises another odd sense he's been trying to ignore: Beverly is writing, by hand no less. Or attempting to.

_"It's okay." Will kisses her cheek. His beard scratches her skin. Jack was always clean-shaven, she thinks, but without rancour, just a moment of remembering that makes her smile._

Picard takes a long, loud breath in the empty quiet. He does love Beverly, still, in a lot of ways, but as close as they are he does not want to face the emotions that come attached to her remembering Jack. And he finds it odd that she can remember of Jack _like_ that, while she's wrapped up in Will Riker's arms and he

_is turning her head, kissing her on the mouth now, flicking his tongue across her lips until she shudders and moves around in the chair to get closer to this kiss._

"I have a better way to distract you," he murmurs in that same tone, as he's pulling her up into his arms. She tenses against his chest for a moment.

"If-"

-no, he doesn't want to share this. He's known Will Riker for six and a half years; he's perfectly well aware of what Will can only be suggesting. He supposes he should be grateful for the small mercy of Deanna's absence, although perhaps she would at least be more discreet.

He rises, deliberately as if stepping away from his comfortable chair can carry him away from Beverly's mind, and he - isn't exactly pleased, since pleasure has little to do with this situation, but he _is_ relieved that his own discipline means it does work, after a fashion. It works for almost five minutes of blissful 'silence', long enough for him to turn off the padd and reach for a thick novel instead - something to grab him -

_"Mm... Beverly..."_

He starts and drops the book

_she tosses away the clasp from her hair_

and shakes his head, goes calmly to the replicator and orders a light milk toddy

_he tastes warm, familiar, he must have had coffee earlier_

sipping it, gripping the hot glass to try and ignore

_yes, that's where she loves to be touched - by his fingers, his caress that's so different to Deanna's. They're both so... but it's Will she wants right now, because she's been thinking about - Jack, and - well - well, quick sex with a man is still simplistic and easy and she doesn't have to think too much, which is all she wants at this moment - and she thinks_

He puts the glass down. He may drop it, otherwise, realising what she thinks - that he, Picard, would find that so familiar as to be inescapable, the sight and feeling of touching and being touched by a beautiful woman because that is how she thinks of Deanna Troi, first and foremost, when he thought at least there would be some semblance of friendship still on the surface of her thoughts...

He knows, of course, that Beverly knows that he hasn't exactly been as straight-laced as all that, particularly in his Academy days. But of course, Beverly also knows how long it's been, and how recently he's thought of

_his hands stroke her shoulders, her back, grasp her hips and pull her close and she arches a little because she's naked and his cock is against her thigh_

does she really think in those words? He didn't want to realise that

_and she wraps her fingers around him, enjoying the way he purrs in the back of his throat and presses forward, the way he grows harder in her hand as she strokes down to the root, opens her hand a little to run her fingernails through the rough curls there, then more to slip down and cup -_

Will laughs, smothering it in her hair behind her ear. "God, you're good."

"Had a good teacher," she reminds him, with the image of Deanna clear in her head and a playful smile.

"Oh - mm_ \- I think there's a natural talent there."_

From inside Beverly's mind it's quite perfectly clear that Will isn't alone in that opinion, that she knows that he knows it, and that this is all just easy play helping her relax.

He didn't know or didn't imagine that they read each other this well. There can't be even any crossed channels there, no alien implants or psi-wave linkages; the completion of their circle is sitting a shift on the bridge tonight and yet they do feel complete, just the two of them, and easy together as

_they kiss, softly at first and then hungrily, Will pushing her down onto the bed_

he hasn't realised the room is Deanna's. Of course, in six and a half years, Picard has innocently seen this room before, but not through these eyes. Beverly is comfortable here in ways she no longer really thinks about, that simply are, like the deep smooth blackness of soft sheets

_her nipples tighten at the cool Betazoid fabric under her back, much cooler than Will's skin against hers and the hair on his chest scratching very lightly on her skin; it makes her twitch and him grin with a laugh in his eyes._

"Yeah?" His hand cups her breast, his fingertip rubbing a sensitive nipple and she feels a soft groan well in her throat.

"Mmhmm..."

He settles on top of her, trapping his own hand heavily over her breast and she writhes a little to move his fingers where she wants them. Will's hands are large, not soft, calloused a little from years of Starfleet work and if she moves just - like - that _-_

Oh, yes. "Yes," she whispers. His eyes are bright in the low light; he strokes his hand down her stomach; she rolls her hips under his hand when he lets a fingertip explore her. "Yes, Will..."

"Shh." He reaches out somewhere behind her head, using that as a weak excuse to kiss her that she accepts hungrily...

Gratefully, as well... it stings that she feels herself grateful for even a gentle kiss.

_Will pulls away and looks down at her. The tube in his hand is familiar; Beverly bites her lip and chokes out a gasp as he dribbles lube from his fingers over her clit, and everything focuses down to watching him watch her_

he cannot see anything of her, but he can feel her, feel the desire in Will's gaze on her body as he leans back

_watches her thighs fall open and her hips arch as the cold liquid trickles down, pooling around her center, making her groan - it tingles and it feels so good, she's never been more thankful for gravity than right now._

Her voice shudders with pleasure and she writhes, wanting his hands on her. "God, that's - cold - "

"But good," Will says, oddly intent, and she growls and whimpers and growls assent as he slides his fingers against her clit and rubs gently. His touch is just more slippery liquid, cold and slick and she's halfway to coming so hard just from this.

"Damn you, come here," she's saying even as she grabs him, curls her fingers behind his knee and drags him towards her, reaching out in demand with the other hand. She watches him smile and push her knees down flat to the bed and come to her, straddling her hips, offering himself to her hands.

His cock is thick and dark and hot and hers - it's this wonderful paradox, even when she shares him with Deanna - even from sharing him, that she's learnt how love and comfort and pleasure are never finite.

Will is slightly shaking, knowing, smiling. She only needs both hands for a moment to pour liquid into her palm. He twitches watching her: she finds his closest free hand with her own and squeezes his fingers, then closes her palm around the length of his cock and strokes hard up and down.

He bucks into her hand, groaning, and she jerks up with him at a few drops of wetness dripping from her fingers, trickling onto her belly. Will grips her hand hard and arches his back. She lets her fingers tighten and twists her wrist. He stares at her in open desire: his voice is uneven, exactly how she loves hearing him sound.

"Stop," he grunts out, yanks his fingers out of hers and falls above her. She lets a gasp escape her throat - and then he's kissing it, kissing her, hot, intent mouth and tongue and teeth on her throat, and she writhes again as his wet fingers brush down her thigh and tug her legs apart again.

He imagined Will as a sensual, considerate lover, not like this. This is not comfortable to see, this is not _right_

_but she wants this, she wants, god- "Will, I want you - I want - please make it stop-"_

"I will. I will." He seems so certain that for at least a moment she has to relax, and Will is a good and skilled and swift lover, so a moment is all he needs to be thrust inside her and make a scream choke in her throat.

"Oh - god, oh god..." she can't breathe he feels so deep and it hurts, just a little

he cannot believe this is reality, his or hers or any other

_and it feels so incredibly good, a sharpness of pleasure as she rocks under him and lets herself go into the moment_

and he doesn't understand how he's known her so long and not known that this is her

_and she cries out, sobbing, frustrated and wanting and pulling Will deeper inside her, until he lifts his head and nuzzles her ear, his beard comfortingly right against her skin. _

"Shhh," and he doesn't move inside her now that he's pushed in as physically close as he can ever be, because she's sure he knows it would kill her to lose that feeling. "I love you," he whispers into her ear

he has never thought of Will saying that to her, nor has he ever heard him so sincere

_and she whimpers, and then louder again because his fingertip is on her clit and "Yes, please, please, Will, I need this-"_

"I know." He smiles and moves his finger - just one finger, rubbing in the wet heat along the side of her clit and circling beneath it and rubbing up and around and around and around and oh, oh yes, oh thank god, she's going to come, needs to come and yes...

"Oh - oh - Will - just don't oh god ohgod-"

"I'm not gonna stop," he gasps in her ear. "Shh, not gonna stop, it's okay, let go-"

She can feel him thrusting into her now, trying to be deeper, his own orgasm close and he'll come with her when she does and that thought, the thought of him wet and hard and spilling inside her -

Her climax hits hard, so hard it makes her scream and her body shake, her hips grinding into his - and still he doesn't stop, even when she's crying out with hoarse pleasure, even when she feels him orgasm deep inside her, even when her mind shuts down... even when her medical training tries to take over and tell her there has to be an end even to this kind of passion, that either Will has to stop touching her or she has to pass out, and it's still telling her that when he lifts his head and looks into her eyes and whispers, "Damn it, if it had been me on that damn planet, ithái, I'm sorry it wasn't me."

She knows what's in those words that he doesn't say. He wishes he could touch her soul here and now and be with her, she can see it in his eyes, and her body clenches around him where he's still buried inside her; her back arches as another orgasm hits hot and wet and like being drowned in solid pleasure, and Will rubs slower and softer circles just above her clit and watches her scream her release.

For a moment - a long moment, but still just a moment - he can hear nothing from her, and he realises a truth with crystal clarity. This is all an attempt to drown him out: the abandoned pen and paper, the third cup of lightly medicated tea untouched on the table, the way Will has been so obligingly trying to overwhelm her senses - all of it is because of him in the most cruelly laughable way, and he feels quietly betrayed. And privately, he hopes very privately, there's betrayal all round. Because he hurts that that is all this act is to her tonight when tonight is the closest he'll ever get.

_She cried; there are tears drying on her face, the heat of the moment, but Will's smile is calm. He's lying next to her in Deanna's bed: she's sore and still trembling, not certain she won't come again if he finds the right spot to brush his touch against her skin._

He knows that, though. Of course. So he rubs his fingers against his thigh and then reaches up to stroke her hair out of her face. "Hey..."

"I'm okay." She touches his lips with a finger. "Go to sleep."

Will knows better, knows her _better_

of course he does

_and he will never really see this kind of connection as private, so since he has no more subtle way to ask; "You can still hear him?"_

It's a gentle question, without much jealousy or reprimand, just an 'oh well' resignation. She nods. He looks at her for a long, quiet moment, and she

he

_feels like she should say something, but she ignores the impulse. Then Will nods, slowly, kisses her and rolls over - an invitation to touch or leave him alone, she_

he, doesn't know which

_to follow. She feels like Deanna's here. That's good, that's a help, at least. She sighs. _

You said you didn't have those feelings for me any more.

Pride is the only thing that makes him stand his ground. The very last thing he was expecting was this.

He has to reply. Nothing in him will let him be silent. _That was before-_

Before you saw me like this, Jean-Luc? Before you knew what you were missing?! She asks it with all the irritation and yes, reprimand, that was missing from Will's voice, and it is intimate enough that he admits to being a little cowed by it. _I'm not yours to watch, or watch over,_ and he can feel her anger at him burn unpleasantly in his head.

_I never said that you were, Beverly-_

_Don't._ Is that, perhaps, the mental equivalent of a glare? He can't see what else it could be, that sudden frozen rush of exclusion she pushes at him.

_I'm not with an empath for nothing,_ she tells him, turning away, filled with fatigue and a kind of lost frustration that this connection is so damned _unending_

"Will," she murmurs, and he turns like he was waiting for her voice. She leans her forehead against the curve of his neck; he reaches back to cup his hand behind her head and his fingers barely miss the implant that's doing its artificial best to ruin her life.

"I love you," she whispers as if she wants to cry. He's speaking even before she can finish.

"Shh," he says, very softly, and turns over to take her in his arms. "Deanna's on her way, okay?"

She breathes deep and lets Will hold her, comfort her, clings to him and the image of the woman they love and just waits for this storm to end.

Picard stands where he's been standing for whole minutes without seeing, without moving, and he feels cold.

  


*

  



End file.
